


Interlude

by Alpined



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:03:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpined/pseuds/Alpined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another walkabout angst-fest, because that's all I wanted to read after that finale landed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

“You’re forgiven.” As if it were that easy. Maybe, for Bellamy, it is.

Clarke takes a long last look at Bellamy’s desperate face, trying to fix a picture of it in her mind. Bellamy’s boyish freckles are mostly obscured by blood and dirt – she can’t remember the last time they weren’t. He’s not a boy, though, and she’s not a girl. His and Monty’s are the only faces she can stand to look at right now, which is why she can’t stay.

“May we meet again,” she whispers into his warm neck, hoping it’s true. She allows herself one look back at her mother, at the others who have finally made it home. Then she turns and faces the forest, and she doesn’t look back.

\--

Her gun is in her hand, because her body doesn’t know what to do anymore out in the open without a weapon. She stops a half mile into the woods and places the gun in her pack, safety on. She thinks of everyone who would tell her she’s a damned fool, which is everyone she cares for – Bellamy, Octavia, Raven, Jasper, her mother, and certainly Lexa – but it gives her some satisfaction. She won’t take another life, not even in self defense. 

She is no more than a mile further south when the slight _crack_ of a branch alerts her to the attack. She whips around just as a grounder leaps at her, knife in hand, the snarl on his lips nearly indistinguishable from the tattoos snaking across his face. She dives to the side but his shoulder rams into her and she goes sprawling to the ground. She spins to her back, her fingers instinctively curling around the jagged rock they find. The grounder kneels over her with his knife raised, a look of exultation on his face. Clarke brings the rock against his head as hard as she can, feeling the spray of blood on her face when it connects with his right eye and the bridge of his nose. He cries out and falls to the side, and he doesn’t move.

Clarke lies still on her back, panting, the rock held loosely in her outstretched hand. She stares up through the trees, patches of blue peeking through the leaves. She can sense the dead grounder beside her.

She opens her mouth and screams into the sky.

\--

Two days later, she is grateful that she took the grounder’s pack and spear. She had never been particularly good at hunting, and the jerky strips and other rations in the warrior’s pack are a welcome addition to what she’d taken with her originally. 

She walks each day as long and far as she can, until her muscles ache and scream out for rest. Then she eats and crawls into her sleeping bag, praying each night that she’ll be too tired to dream.

As she walks, she focuses on each step, on each mile. It helps, but only in spurts. Her mind slips and fall on thoughts of them, and then it’s hard to breathe, let alone walk. It’s a jolt through her body each time she sees their melted faces, each time she remembers stepping over a body, each time she watches through the monitors as they collapse like rag dolls. She sees Jasper’s stricken face as he holds Maya, who they all owe their lives to. She sees her mother’s horror and disgust at what she’d done at Tondc. She sees Finn’s face, young and scared, right before she kills him. She feels the lever under her hand and the warm pressure of Bellamy’s palm.

Sometimes she thinks of Lexa, which hurts in a different way. Then, at least, she can turn her anger outward. 

\--

Five days in she hits a stream late in the day. She wants to keep walking, but knows she should stop, refill her canteens, and see if she can fish. It’s one of the few types of hunting – other than for people – that she’s good at. 

The fish are curious, unfrightened things, and she manages to spear two of them. She starts a small fire and crafts a makeshift spit, squatting next to the fire and turning the meat slowly. Their scales are a beautiful blue-green, and she wishes she knew what they were called. Earth Skills had never gotten into that level of detail, though. She supposes the grounders have some kind of guttural name for them.

Once the fish have cooled, she picks them apart with her fingers, listening to the restless sounds of the forest as she eats. She takes the fish guts and scales back to the river, throwing them in and washing her hands in the water. She goes back to where she’s set up camp and slips into her sleeping bag.

She’s not tired, which is what she was afraid of. 

As she lies in her sleeping bag, she finds herself fixated on one image. It’s of the child she’d found curled near one of the doors, his face upturned so she could clearly see the skin sloughing off from his face. She’d barely registered him then, setting him aside for when she had time to think of these things, after her people were safe. It comes back to her now, as it often does. She pushes the image away, and then stops. She doesn't think she's earned that escape. So she pictures his face. She imagines his parents, his daily life, his small aspirations. And then she does it again, her fist compulsively beating her thigh as she stares into the night.

\--

On the twelfth day she witnesses the loveliest dawn she’s ever seen, which she views from her camp on an outcropping clinging to the side of a cliff. She delays her departure for an hour that day so she can sit with her legs hanging over the edge of the cliff’s face, watching as the sun makes its slow way across the sky. Oranges and faint reds burst from the horizon, rosy fingers reaching out across the forest that stretches as far as the eye can see. Clarke finally sighs and rises to her feet, shouldering her pack again.

\--

One day she comes across a burnt-out grounder village. She has been carefully avoiding any other villages, making a wide berth around any she’s come across. But this one has clearly been empty for a long time, and she could use some new supplies. She finds a few useful odds and ends, but the village has been scavenged thoroughly. She doesn’t avert her eyes from the few bodies – mostly bones – that she comes across. _Yu gonplei ste odon_ , she whispers to each one.

\--

She gets better at hunting, though she still can’t manage to catch the fat grey birds that periodically burst from the ground in terror, almost at her feet. They’re camouflaged too well, and she’s too slow. But she bags deer from time to time, and occasionally wild pig. She becomes adept at spotting birds’ nests in trees. She likes the eggs of the brown-spotted, sharp-beaked birds the best, and learns to suck the yolks from small holes she makes in their shells. 

\--

In the beginning, she just moves south, using the sun as her guide. Eventually, once she’s put enough space between her and Camp Jaha, she goes in whatever direction she pleases that day. You can’t get lost when you have no final destination.

She avoids the large, overgrown roads from the time before, even though she knows they would be easier to walk. She can’t risk the exposure, and she doesn’t like the way they force her to imagine what it must have been like, when those roads were full of working cars and people long since dead. 

She spends two days at a waterfall that rushes and bellows from a cliff face, washing the dirt from her body and clothes and feeling the thick spray on her skin as the water hits the rocks below. She stumbles upon the remnants of a forest community, rope bridges and huts strung across the trees like streamers. She wonders why they left but chooses not to think about it too long. One day she comes across a natural bridge, tall as Alpha Station, and spends her night under its cool shadow.

No view from her 17 years on the Ark can compare to this much beauty, this much life. But still, she finds she misses the stars.

\--

A month after leaving Camp Jaha, she almost dies from starvation and stupidity. She’d crossed into a more sparse land where game was scarce and scared, and few trees seemed to bear fruit. She’d decided to risk eating berries she didn’t recognize, and had become violently, debilitatingly ill. She could barely move for three days, and she could feel her muscles and what little fat she had slipping away. When she finally managed to crawl her way to a nearby stream, she nearly wept when she recognized one of the hollow, floating plants as edible. She ate all she could reach, and two days later she was able resume her journey, though at a slower pace for some time.

\--

It gets better. She thinks of them less, and each time it gives her less pain. And that gives her pain, because it is not something she should be allowed to forget. But she knows, logically, that the mind heals the same as the body, whether deserved or not. She’s read about some of the great monsters of earth, who had killed whole populations, whole races. Many of them lived for years and years; some were even pardoned. The thought only makes it worse. But she won’t refuse the gift of time – she’s too tired for that.

\--

She finds herself thinking more and more of Lexa, and each time her anger with her fades. She finds this a less welcome development, because anger is fuel. But eventually she realizes anger, too, is exhausting – there’s nothing left once it’s done burning.

She doesn’t let herself speculate at what might have been, had the Mountain Men never made their deal. There’s no point, because once she starts thinking of could-have-beens, it will never end. She does wonder whether the clan alliance still holds, without the common enemy of the Mountain Men. She imagines Lexa desperately holding her people together, with diplomacy and violence and sheer will. She sees her in battle, her eyes gleaming through the black kohl, bright with anticipation and blood lust. She sees her stripped of makeup, suddenly younger and more human, looking at Clarke pleadingly. She wonders if Lexa also dreams of the lives she’s ended, and whether those dreams are nightmares or simply tallies.

\--

She finds signs of the time before – farmhouses and stores, rusted cars and collapsed houses. She’s cautious in these areas, but can’t resist slipping inside sometimes, fingering the relics of a lost age and imagining if things had been different then.

\--

She has close calls with grounder parties, and once has to abandon a week’s worth of rations when they come across her camp when she’s away. She kills only once more – a young grounder woman who stumbles across her camp. The two stare at each other for a moment before the grounder launches her knife at Clarke. The knife sticks in the fleshy part of Clarke’s upper arm, making her cry out. Clarke dives towards her gun as the grounder charges her. Clarke spins and pulls the trigger, watching the girl catch the force of the bullet and jerk to the ground. 

Clarke stays where she is for a full day, tending to her flesh wound and hoping they’ll find her. But no one comes, so she surrounds the body with a wreath of flowers and leaves the next day.

\--

Eventually, she lets herself think of her people. 

She hopes Bellamy is braver than she was, and able to continue shouldering the burden of leadership. She wonders if Jasper has recovered his smile, and if he’s realized that he still needs Monty. She wonders what brilliant improvements Raven has made to the camp, and has visions of a restless Octavia prowling the perimeter, never too far away from Lincoln. She hopes the fence holds, hopes that even with the alliance broken, the grounders keep their distance. She hopes her mother doesn’t worry too much. She hopes they’re safe, but doesn’t let herself wonder whether they are safer with or without her.

She begins to let herself miss them.

\--

Frost is beginning to line the grass and trees when her luck runs out. She’s been feeling the fear of the winter – feeling how the cold seeps through her now-worn sleeping bag, prodding at her back and tugging at her toes. She doesn’t know how to tan animal skins, but she thinks she’ll have to learn, so she can use their furs. The game is scarcer now, and even the nests are harder to find.

She is putting out her fire and rolling up her sleeping bag one cold morning when they appear, fifteen strong. She waits calmly for one of them to shoot her, but they don’t. Instead, Indra steps out of the trees and approaches her.

“Indra,” Clarke says politely, as if this is a normal occasion. Her voice cracks a bit, but only because it hasn’t been used in so long.

“Mountain Killer,” Indra replies, inclining her head. “The Commander requests your presence.”

Clarke almost laughs. “May I finish packing my things?” she says, gesturing towards her small camp. Indra nods, and Clarke goes back to rolling up her sleeping bag.

\--

Clarke doesn’t ask Indra any questions as they make their way through the woods. If Indra thinks this is strange, she doesn’t give any indication. 

They make camp that evening and then walk for a full day. Clarke is focusing on the path in front of her, and startles a bit when they exit the tree line and are met by the sight of a village.

“We are here,” Indra says from just behind Clarke. “This is the Vedalle. Heda is here.”

Clarke nods and lets Indra take the lead. They enter the village, where some warriors and civilians alike are already lining the path. There are murmurs as Clarke passes, and she hears the word _Maunripa_ said more than once. She keeps her face still as Indra leads her to the largest tent.

They enter, and there is Lexa.

She sits on a throne, her back straight. Her face is expressionless as Clarke enters, her eyes black with kohl. Every inch of her speaks of power and command. Even after all these months, Clarke feels her breath catch at the sight of her.

 _“Maunripa, his Heda,”_ Indra says, gesturing to Clarke. Lexa nods.

“Leave us,” Lexa says to Indra and the four other warriors inside the hut. Indra hesitates, her gaze flicking from Clarke to Lexa, but Lexa raises her eyebrow slightly and Indra bows her head. 

“I will be outside, Commander,” Indra says, and turns to leave.

There is a silence after Indra leaves. Clarke stands there, suddenly aware that she has not bathed in weeks, and has no idea what she looks like. She had sawed off some of her hair a month ago when it got too unruly, and it’s grown back in uneven layers. The creases in her hands and face are lined with dirt, and some of her outer clothes are falling apart. Her pack is literally held together with shoestring.

Lexa looks her up and down, her gaze steady. “You look well.”

And Clarke starts laughing, the sound almost startling her, it’s been so long. She can’t stop, though, because it’s all so ludicrous, and she hunches over, the sound tumbling out of her, unstoppable. She feels more than sees Lexa rise from her chair and approach her. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Lexa reaches out a hand to rest on Clarke’s shoulder. Clarke gulps in a breath, then another, pushing down the laughter until it stops. She slowly straightens and meets Lexa’s gaze. Lexa doesn’t move her hand.

“I should kill you,” Clarke says flatly, looking into Lexa’s grey-green eyes.

Lexa nods, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “That is one way this could go. Will you try to kill me, Clarke of the Sky People?”

Clarke smiles herself, knowing nothing of it is reflected in her eyes. “No, Commander. What would be the point?”

Lexa searches Clarke’s face, as if expecting something more. Her fingers lift from Clarke’s shoulder and hover just centimeters from Clarke’s cheek, and for a moment Clarke thinks she will touch her. But then Lexa draws her hand back to her side and nods.

“Will you sit?” Lexa says, gesturing to the table near her throne. Clarke nods and moves to the table, sinking into one of the chairs with a sigh of relief as she takes the weight off her aching feet. Lexa sits across from her, somehow still stately and graceful in her movements, despite the thick and snarled mess of leather she wears as armor.

“Why did you fetch me?” Clarke asks bluntly, knowing neither of them is much for smalltalk. She can tell her tone is hard but doesn’t care.

“I need you,” Lexa says simply, and Clarke blinks. “We all need you. There is deep unrest among the clans.”

“There’s always deep unrest among the clans,” Clarke points out, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “And I don’t know what I can do about it – you’re their commander.”

“I am the commander of seven of the clans, but the other five have broken away,” Lexa corrects. “Without the threat of the Mountain Men, old rivalries and blood prices could not be contained, not even by me. We stand on the edge of war – again.”

“I guess nobody thought we could kill the Mountain Men without you,” Clarke replies, caustic and hard.

“No,” Lexa says calmly. “We did not. Your success was…unexpected.”

Clarke laughs bitterly. “Well, we did it. Irradiated all 350 of them.” She narrows her eyes. “How can I possibly help the clans? You seemed pretty done with me last time I saw you.”

“You are a legend, Clarke of the Sky People,” Lexa says simply, her eyes willing Clarke to meet her gaze. “They call you _Maunripa_ – Mountain Killer.” Clarke flinches at this, and Lexa notices, her eyes softening. “I know it was not your intent, but it was the result. You brought down the greatest enemies the clans have known, enemies who have threatened us for generations. And you did it with a handful of children.”

Clarke feels the pain of those words shoot through her, and can’t help but push her way out of the chair, striding several steps away before stopping. “I still don’t understand how that helps you,” she says, her back to Lexa.

“With you as their leader, the Sky People would be perceived as a powerful ally, including to those who no longer follow me. If you joined with us, we could forge a new alliance, one that unites us all.”

Clarke turns now, her look incredulous. “Join with you? After you left our people to die? Why would we _ever_ agree to that?”

“Because you will be killed otherwise,” Lexa says bluntly. “After the alliance was broken, I commanded my people not to attack the Sky People unless you engaged them first. But the rebel clans have no similar restrictions. Your people are in danger. You can help them.”

“No,” Clarke says, shaking her head. “I’m done. The others – they can forge that alliance, if they have to. They don’t need me.”

“I did not think you were so selfish, Clarke,” Lexa responds quietly.

“Selfish?” Clarke says, her voice low with anger, her fists clinching involuntarily. “ _Everything_ I have done, I’ve done for my people.”

“Including abandoning them so you could wander through the woods?” Lexa snaps, rising from her own chair.

“I didn’t… _abandon_ them,” Clarke says angrily. “They didn’t need me – I would have only brought them more pain.”

“Shouldn’t they be the ones to decide that?” Lexa asks. When Clarke doesn’t respond, she steps around the table, taking a few steps closer to her. “Do you think I didn’t want to leave it all behind, after the decision I made? I knew you would never give up on your people, even if it killed you. And that’s what I thought I had done – killed you.” Her voice quivers, just slightly, and Clarke has to will herself not to take a step towards her. Lexa lifts her chin proudly. “But I didn’t. I led my people away, and I continue to lead them. I did not abandon them with Costia died. I did not abandon them when the Ice Nation destroyed my home village. You do not know _half_ of the decisions I live with every day, for the good of my people. I am Heda – my people come first.”

Lexa stands there, proud and uncompromising and fiercely beautiful. Lexa, who claims she doesn’t feel anything but who feels too much – feels everything, and then buries it, again and again. Clarke feels her throat catch.

“I don’t want to be the kind of person I need to be to make those decisions,” Clarke whispers, her voice almost breaking. “I’m not like you.”

“You are like me,” Lexa answers, and she says it with sympathy. 

Clarke closes her eyes, feeling a tear escape and slide down her cheek. “Aren’t you _tired_?” she asks, and then finds she can’t say any more as a sob tears its way out of her. Instantly, Lexa has closed the distance between them. Her hands reach out to cup Clarke’s face, forcing her to meet her eyes. Clarke searches Lexa’s face, seeing concern and understanding etched in every line. Clarke leans forward, resting her forehead against Lexa’s chest, feeling the leather press gently into her skin. Lexa slips her arm behind Clarke, her calloused hand resting against the back of her neck, gentler than Clarke would ever have imagined. 

They stand there for a few moments, and then quietly, Lexa says, “It is known, among my people, that a day will come when the Commander’s task is done.” Her voice is almost dreamy as she speaks. “I am reborn, again and again, to protect my people and lead them to safety. One day, we will find peace. Then, my spirit will have done its work. Then, I will rest.”

Clarke breathes in deeply, smelling leather and Lexa’s skin, and feels a calm fall on her. She nods, she gives in. She pulls away from Lexa, and Lexa lets her, her fingers trailing gently away from Clarke’s throat until they’re gone. Clarke straightens, looking Lexa full in the eye.

“You know I can never forgive you. And I will never trust you.”

“I know,” Lexa says, soft and sad. Then her expression becomes fierce, and she is Heda, not Lexa. “But for now, we will fight together, for them.”

“For them,” Clarke repeats.

\--

(Later, she will let herself think of those green days alone, of rushing waters and restless forests, and the nights that wrapped her in silence.)


End file.
